“Okay, I should go see the rest of my clients,” I said.
“You’ll come back though, right?” Yoss asked, sounding so much younger than he was.
I ignored the strange look Cheyenne gave me and instead concentrated on Yoss.
“I’ll come back later this afternoon,” I told him.
“Do you promise?”
“I promise.”
I wasn’t able to get back to Yoss’s room until late in the afternoon. When I arrived a woman I recognized was sitting in the chair by his bed.
Yoss looked irritated, his lips pinched, his brow furrowed.
Which wasn’t surprising, given whom he was speaking to. Tracey Higgins glanced up from the pile of papers in her lap and gave me a tight smile.
“Imogen, hello,” she said with a sour expression. Her lip curled as though she smelled something bad and I wanted to roll my eyes.
Tracey had never learned how to play well with others.
We butted heads early in my career. It all started over a homeless woman who had been admitted to the hospital for pneumonia. She had been hesitant about going to the local shelter. After doing some digging I found out that the woman had been assaulted by another woman at the shelter several months before, though she had never reported it.
When I had suggested the woman be transported to a shelter in the next city, Tracey had taken offense. As though I were insulting her program. She took everything personally and because of that she had been a pain in my ass ever since.
Yoss’s eyes followed me as I walked into the room and sat down in other chair on the opposite side of his bed.
“I’ve been telling Yossarian about the shelter and the services he’s eligible for,” Tracey said, baring her teeth in an aggressive smile. “He seems rather resistant. I told him that you would reinforce how important it will be for his long-term health to be in an environment where he can get the support he needs.” She was incredibly condescending, speaking about Yoss as though he were a small child incapable of making his own decisions.
And she had called him Yossarian.
He hated being called Yossarian.
Even though he felt pride in the oddity of his name, he still had always refused to use it in its entirety.
“Tell this lady that I don’t do shelters. That I will never stay in one and to stop bugging the shit out of me,” Yoss demanded through clenched teeth.
Tracey’s eyes widened fractionally. “I understand this is a lot to take in at the moment, Yossarian—”
“Donotcall me Yossarian,” he warned, glaring at her with narrowed green eyes.
Tracey gave me an annoyed look as if to saywhat is his problem?
“Yoss, maybe you could just have a look at the services the Homeless Program offers. There might be something that could help you,” I suggested softly.
Yoss turned his eyes to me and his face relaxed. Just a little.
“Okay, I’ll have a look,” he agreed, though he didn’t sound very convincing. Tracey smiled as though she had won some sort of war.
“Great, now Yossa—I mean Yoss—I know the police have been by to speak to you. They’ve said that unless you can identify your attacker and want to press charges, there’s nothing they can do. Can you talk to us at all about what happened? I think finding the person responsible is very important. You need to—”
“I’m not talking about that. Not to you. Not to the police. I think you need to go now,” Yoss all but shouted. He winced and closed his eyes as if in pain.
It was time for me to step in.
“Tracey, Yoss is tired. He’s been through a lot and he’s running a fever. Perhaps you can ask him your questions later,” I insisted.
“But, I have paperwork to fill out,” Tracey complained, lifting the pile in her lap.
